


You and me, babe, how about it?

by sonofabiscuit77



Series: Planet Waves series (Post Carry On fics) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester in Heaven, Domestic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Post-Season/Series 15, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester in Heaven, Winchester Family Feels (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: Sam and Dean enjoy heaven together. Dean thinks a lot. There is no plot.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Planet Waves series (Post Carry On fics) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089722
Comments: 31
Kudos: 170





	You and me, babe, how about it?

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Dire Straits, for reasons.

On Sundays, they go to Mom and Dad’s place. 

Mom and Dad have a two storey house with a wraparound porch, a swing out front, and a huge backyard with a firepit and a shooting range that Dad built. There’s a basement that’s the size of one of the entire floors with a home bar, pool table and darts board. 

Mom and Dad have two massive bull mastiffs called Butch and Sundance, and despite being half their size, Miracle bosses them around, barking and jumping and leading them on as soon as Dean lets him out of the car, tearing across the front yard to play. Dean wonders if that’s normal, if a dog of Miracle’s size and disposition would normally dominate two huge dogs like that, or whether it’s a heaven thing, where pets are never aggressive or jealous or sick, and they always get on with each other. 

Mom is still a terrible cook, but that doesn’t matter ‘cause Dean loves to cook for the four of them, and Mom’s surprisingly willing to take direction from him. Dad and Sam always handle the clean-up, so that’s good. There’s something about seeing Dad and Sam watching the game together, while he’s in the kitchen with Mom, peering around the open door to the den and seeing that smile on Sammy’s face as he nods at something Dad’s saying. 

After dinner, there are games, competitive games of course, 'cause Dad is Dad, and Mom is just like him. Sometimes it’s the two of them against him and Sam, or sometimes they mix it up, him and Mom against Dad and Sam, or him and Dad against Mom and Sam, and if they’re playing darts in the basement then he and Dad are going to be buried every time. Sam’s always beaten him at darts, and Mom is a killer. Dean doesn’t care though, he can’t get enough of the look on Sam’s face when he lands the triple 20, the high-five and hug from Mom, the gleeful chalking up of their score on the blackboard.

This is how it might’ve been, he thinks, and then he catches himself, 'cause no, it never could’ve been, not this. ‘Cause if it had been this, if he and Sam had grown up with two parents, then they wouldn’t be him and Sam. Sam would be sharing his heaven with someone else, and well, no. Never that. 

They leave late on Sundays, by the time Dad’s done with retelling some old hunting story and Mom’s yawning. Not that the late hour matters anymore, none of them have jobs, there are no hunts in heaven. Dean sometimes wonders if there could be. He could pray to Jack, ask him to magic up a vengeful spirit for the four of them to take out, maybe some werewolves or rugarus or even a wendigo for old time’s sake. (Not a vampire though, not that.) He’d give something for the four of them to hunt together, just to watch Dad try to give Mom orders like he used to do with him and Sam. But he’s pretty sure there are no monsters in heaven, so the stakes would be all wrong, too fake, not the same. He makes a note to ask Jack next time he pops by about purgatory though, whether that’s still a thing. Where do the monsters go now? Maybe Jack’s whipped up a better Purgatory too, a Purgatory 2.0. As a former resident, he wants to know.

He gets caught up sometimes on wondering about what’s real and what’s fake. Was anything ever real? Knowing what they know about Chuck and all his other worlds, about how many first drafts he left out there. There’s a whole freaking town five miles from where they live. It has a grocery store, a hardware store, a Chinese restaurant, a pub, and even a video store. It’s a little like Lebanon, though prettier, more of a tourist-trap, and that goes to show that they never really did show Jack as much of the world as they should. 

Even Mom and Dad, he wonders sometimes. With Mom it’s difficult in a way he doesn’t like to prod at too much, he’s not certain he ever got to know her well enough to make that judgment. Dad’s a different case, he falls into the same category as Sam, someone Dean knows to the bone. But Dad is softer now, he laughs easily, when Dean can count on one hand the number of times he saw his father genuinely laugh during his entire childhood. Now he’ll throw back his head and laugh, full and throaty, in a way that reminds Dean of Sam, he’ll grin and take Mom’s hand across the table, calling her “my girl”, affectionate and unembarrassed in front of his sons. 

Then again, there are other times. Three Sundays ago, a shooting contest on the range Dad built at the back of his and Mom’s place. Him and Dad versus Mom and Sam, Dad watching Dean take his turn with arms folded, his gaze narrow and critical. “Thought I taught you better’n that, Dean. Weaver’s no good for a Colt. Recoil’ll get you every time,” after Dean missed two targets. He’d felt the familiar roil of shame in his gut, annoyed with himself ‘cause Dad was right, he does know better than that, exchanging a look with Sam when they swapped places. But at least, that was Dad, in all his glory, the good and the bad, that was Dean’s father. 

Of course the one thing he is sure of is Sam, him and Sam. They’re both real. He feels real, still feels the guilt and longing and heartache when he sees that expression on Sammy’s face. The way even after all this time - how much time Dean still has no idea - Sam’s eyes will follow him around the room, how Sam will come find him, plopping down next to him when he’s working on the car, following him down to the creek when Dean goes to fish, sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen to watch him cook. That concern for Sam, the guilt and worry, it’s too ingrained to ever not be there, and he welcomes it, knowing that it means he’s not numb. He’s not living in this fake nirvana when everything is completely perfect and Sam didn’t live thirty two years without him. 

&&

“Dad asked me about Dean,” Sam says later that evening. They’re sitting on their own back porch, sharing a bottle of something good Dean picked up from the liquor store in town. Yes, there’s a liquor store too, packed with all of Dean’s favourite brands. He thanks Jack for that every day. “He wanted to know what I taught him, about hunting.” 

“Yeah?” prompts Dean. Sam talks so little about his son that Dean’s learned to keep quiet, let Sam come out with it on his own, despite Dean’s hunger to know more about the kid with his name. 

Sam sighs, “I didn’t though, not really. I didn’t want that for him.” 

“Of course not,” says Dean, and he means it. He would never choose the hunting life for someone who ever had a choice, least of all his nephew, Sammy’s boy, their flesh and blood. 

“I taught him enough to keep safe, to recognise things, and he got the tattoo, when he was old enough. I wasn’t even sure if it was needed, if demons were still around. I never saw one, not all those years, so maybe… maybe the gates to Hell did get nailed shut after all.” Dean glances at him again, sees him purse his lips, and rest the rim of his glass against his mouth. Sam must feel him looking ‘cause he turns his head. His eyes glint in the moonlight, the planes of his face half in shadow and half-silvered. 

Dean swallows and drains his glass. He can still feel Sam looking at him, so he nudges him in the side with his elbow. “C’mon, bed,” he says. He gets to his feet, and hears Sam do the same behind him, collecting their glasses and shuffling inside. 

In the kitchen, he opens the freezer, takes out a packet of ground lamb and dumps it into the sink to thaw. He’ll make some sort of meat pie tomorrow. He’s gotten good with pastry. Sam slides up behind him, rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder, and breathes into his neck. Dean reaches around and hooks his fingers into Sam’s waistband, tugging him closer. All those hours spent with Mom and Dad and they have to be careful. It’s not difficult, not really, not when they spent so many years being careful around so many people. But most of the time now it’s just them and they get careless. He’s convinced one day that he’ll get really careless, that he’ll lose himself completely, press Sam up against the wall between the den and the kitchen at Mom and Dad’s place. Maybe he’s gone inside to fetch the beers and Sam’s followed, and they can’t help themselves, a little wall fumble, and then there’ll be a gasp, Mom’s face. Or even worse, Dad, the dark unforgiving John Winchester face, and that’ll be that, no more heavenly family Sundays for the Winchesters. 

Then again, maybe Mom knows. He thinks sometimes that she figured it out, one of those times when she was living in the bunker. Maybe that was why they never really connected, maybe that was the reason for it. 

He lets Sam tug him around. Sam’s smiling at him, the moon’s shining through the window behind Dean, and Sam looks ethereal and otherworldly. He puts his hand on Sam’s cheek, and closes his eyes, he feels like Sam. Sam leans down into Dean’s hand and kisses the meat of his palm. He captures Dean’s wrist and turns it over, turns his own face to press his lips, his nose against Dean’s pulse point. Dean’s heart has quickened, and he parts his legs, lets Sam’s thigh slide in between and their foreheads rest together. 

“Bed,” Sam says, breath puffing against Dean’s cheek, and he drops Dean’s wrist. 

Sam blows him, on his knees on the bedroom floor. Dean on the edge of the bed, his jeans around his ankles, leaning back, balanced on his elbows and looking down, down to Sam with his eyes wide, looking back up at him, Sam’s mouth stretched, and the shape of Dean’s cock visible through his cheek. “Jesus, fuck, Sammy,” he says, and that just makes Sam suck harder, like he’s extracting every piece of Dean through his cock. Sam lets him go with a slurp and immediately goes for his balls, sucking one into his mouth and then the other, tonguing messily at Dean’s perineum and his ass. Dean shudders, falls backwards, collapsing into the comforter, reaching and feeling for Sam’s head, his messy, messy hair, tugging and pulling. Sam rears up, kneeling high, is shadow falling over Dean, staring down into Dean’s face, that intense and dazzling focus of Sam. 

Dean throws his arm over his eyes, and Sam’s there, pushing his arm away and saying, “No, no, I wanna see you. Dean.” He’s staring at him, wet and sticky lips, and glinting eyes, chest heaving. 

“Fuck,” Dean says, staring back, breath caught in his throat. “Fuck, Sam.” Sam grabs his hand, kisses the back of his knuckles, and then leans down once more, sliding his mouth back over the head of Dean’s cock. 

“Hey,” Sam says when he’s done, when Deans still flat on his back, catching his breath, his spent cock twitching weakly against his thigh. Dean opens his eyes and lazily focuses on him. Sam’s naked, and he’s petting Dean’s side, staring down at him, fond and red mouthed. “Quid pro quo, big brother.” 

Dean groans and rolls onto his side, too late realising his jeans are still locked around his ankles. He swears, and Sam laughs, and they both reach down to tug his jeans over his feet, tossing them to one side of the room. Sam is on his back now, and he grabs Dean’s arm, and pulls him in, letting Dean sprawl over him, half-blanketing him, nosing at his throat and cheek, until their mouths meet. 

They kiss for a while, Sam’s cock a hard thick rod between them, until Sam gets impatient and pulls away, nudging Dean’s shoulder and pushing him down. Dean sighs and goes with it. He doesn’t enjoy sucking dick that much, but he’ll do it for Sammy. Sam likes to drag it out, like he’s in a personal battle with his own interminable iron willpower. Dean’s jaw always starts to ache way too soon, but he’s not giving up and he’s not letting Sam win. He’s got tricks up his sleeve, _don’t neglect the balls_ , one of the best pieces of advice he’s ever been given, said by a john when Dean was nineteen years old and trying to make a fast twenty bucks, on his knees behind a drive-thru, and the john had said, _hey kid, don’t neglect the balls._ Dean had learned fast. 

Sam doesn’t last much longer after that, iron willpower be damned. Dean lets it splatter his face, holds Sam’s cock by the root, and directs Sam to come all over him. Sam loves that, loves to see his release dripping off Dean’s eyelashes and smearing with the tears tracked on his cheeks 'cause goddamnit Sam is a big boy and Dean’s eyes always water when he sucks him deep. 

“Christ, Dean,” Sam exhales like he always does. He’s leaning up on his elbows, eying him, and Dean’s looking back, smug and sticky. Sam’s grinning wider and shaking his head, saying, “Fuck, you fuckin’ kill me man,” and Dean laughs, ‘cause yeah, sometimes they can joke about shit like that. 

&&

The Harvelles host a cook-out in the parking lot of the Roadhouse. Dean makes a huge vat of chilli, and Sam goes to the market in the little town to buy an extra pot to transport it in. He has to hold it on his knees when Dean drives them from their place to the Roadhouse, wincing every time Dean hits a pothole, the chilli slopping dangerously close to the edge. 

“Stop being a dick, Dean,” he whines, and he sounds so much like Dean’s little brother, that Dean has to do it again. 

The chilli, and Sam, make it to the roadhouse safely, and so many people are already there. Mom and Dad of course, Bobby, Pam, Rufus, Ash, Ellen and Jo, and Jo’s dad, Bill Harvelle. 

“Dean! Sam!” Jo greets them with hugs as they stagger under the weight of the chilli. She’s wearing a flannel shirt and tight jeans and she looks exactly as she did the day Dean first met her, holding a rifle on him and Sam. She looks so young, though he knows she’s not, not really. But still next to him, he’s sixteen years older than she was when she died. The first time she saw him she’d whistled and shaken her head, “Dean Winchester, the finest of fine wines.” He’d blushed, feeling embarrassed, and ridiculous, and every one of his forty-two years to her twenty-six. 

Everyone here is the age they were when they died. Mom when she died the second time, years younger than Dad - younger than both him and Sam - and yet she and Dad look right together, despite the age difference, slotting into each other’s bodylines like they didn’t spend a lifetime and countless Hell years apart. Bobby and Rufus, two crotchety old men; Elllen, a fine looking woman, and Dean regrets never tapping that, though he’s pretty sure Ellen would’ve beaten his ass for even trying, she'd been so gone for her dead husband, it was kinda beautiful to see them here together. Pamela Barnes, yeah well, she’d seen through him and Sam like plate glass, _you can come too, grumpy._ Oh yeah, he still regrets that they never took her up on that offer. He supposes they could do it now, he’s pretty sure Pam would be into it, but he doesn't think Sam would be, and let's face it, they're in no hurry. 

Sam is the only exception. Sam should be seventy, Dean knows that. Sam lived his threescore and ten like it was a target he was trying to reach. Sam should look older than everyone here, even Rufus and Bobby, and yet Sam is thirty-eight, the age he was when Dean died, the last time Dean looked upon him with living eyes. Dean knows there’s something exceptional there, but he doesn’t want to prod it too hard, risk it all coming undone like another rebar to the chest. Yeah, sometimes he jokes about that, but only silently, in his head, and only when he's not looking at Sam. 

He kisses his mom who’s helping Ellen serve drinks, and grabs a handful of long-necks for him, Sam, Rufus and Bobby. He can see the three of them at a picnic table in the corner of the yard, and so he makes for them, dropping into place next to Sam. 

“Nice day for it,” he says. 

Rufus snorts, unimpressed. “It’s heaven, Dean, it’s always a nice day.” 

“Now that ain’t true,” says Bobby. “What about that storm three nights back.” 

Sam frowns. “We didn’t see it.” 

Rufus cuts Bobby a look. “That was your angel friend, shooting out the electrics again.” 

Dean feels a chill down his spine. He knows that Cas is around, well not around, not exactly, he’s not, like, local to this particular corner of Heaven. But Dean knows that Cas sometimes puts in an appearance to visit with old friends. Jo mentioned it once, off-handed, and by-the-way, and surprised that Dean hadn’t seen him. Even Mom said he’d called round to meet Dad one time, that he’d acted appropriately deferential to the famous John Winchester, Hell’s OG Righteous Man. As for Bobby, well, Dean kinda suspects that Bobby and Cas spend many evenings sacked out in front of truly awful reality TV together. 

He’s never come by his and Sam’s place, and while it irritates Dean in a way he can’t exactly put his finger on - Cas is supposed to be his best friend after all, after everything they’ve been through - he’s also relieved. He can still remember Cas’s final words so vividly, the look on his face, his willingness to let himself be taken to save Dean. Seeing Dean again would be such an anti-climax to all that. Maybe he’d look at Dean and realise that he was wrong, see the truth of him, that Dean was never that person he described, the person Cas built up in his head. 

He feels Sam’s eyes on him, the sympathetic look Dean knows so well, and it feels heavy, annoying. Sam knows about what Cas said to him: his big secret, his truth with a capital T, his moment of perfect happiness. Sam was surprisingly chill about it when Dean confessed it all. Months after they’d defeated Chuck, one night in the bunker, Miracle lying between them, and Dean saying, “I never told you about how Cas died…” He’d felt the words in his throat for months, Sam had never asked, he wouldn’t. Sam turned to him, so damnably sympathetic and said, “You don’t have to,” and he interrupted, saying, “No, no, I do. You should know. He was your friend too.” 

And so he told him, and Sam listened, in that way Sam does. At the end, Sam nodded slowly, and said, “Yeah, of course, Dean, of course he was.” And then when Dean cast him a look, Sam looked back, wry and matter-of-fact. “Dean, you’re my big brother, I’ve seen you break hearts for years. You think I don’t notice, I always notice.” 

“I didn’t, I mean, I don’t,” he started to say, trying to get the words out, but Sam cut him off, dropping his hand to Dean’s thigh and squeezing gently. 

“I know, believe me. I know you, Dean. It wasn’t your fault. It was his choice, and if he were still here, then, well. He wouldn't expect anything back. That's why he never said. He knew that.” Sam paused, then his mouth twisted, dirty and possessive in that way Sam got so rarely, but that turned Dean’s crank like nothing else, his hand sliding up Dean’s thigh, deliberate and claiming. “Everyone falls in love with you. Vampires, the King of Hell, a freakin’ angel of the lord.” His hand was on Dean’s cock, rock hard and throbbing, and he grinned. “Too fucking bad for them.” 

He swallows and focusses back on the conversation, glancing across at his brother, and seeing Sam watching him, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. Goddamnit, Sam reads him far too well. 

++

Dean Jr’s mother was a hunter called Gina. Sam met her on a wraith hunt eight months after Dean died. She knew who he was straight away, but she hadn’t known that Dean was dead. Sam only told people when he absolutely had to. He’d had no one at Dean’s funeral, he stood beside Dean’s burning body with only Miracle for company. Dean’s prodded it, thought about it, gotten a little irritated that he didn’t get a big eulogy or some epic all-nighter send-off, a couple of hunters hooking up in the showers ‘cause funerals make you horny, everyone knows that. But on the other hand, yeah. Sam can do what he damn well pleases with Dean’s body. Sam couldn’t share his grief, Dean knows what that’s like. Sam’s grief was a private, world-ending thing, and it was all his own. In Sammy’s place he wouldn’t even be holding a funeral, he’d be on that pyre too. That was the point. That was why it was right for him to go first. Sam’s always been the strongest. 

Sam hunted a lot those first few months, one hunt after another, rolling on and on, with only Miracle for company. Except for that one hunt with Gina, the two of them stumbling onto the case together, that brief reprieve after a night of tequila, and then parting, rolling onto the next evil thing. Dean knows that if it weren’t for Miracle, Sam wouldn’t have made it past those first months to even meet Gina. 

“He was a good hunter,” Sam says. They’re walking him, heading down one of their favourite forest trails. Sam’s wearing that god awful orange jacket he loves so much, (of all the things to survive into the afterlife), head dipped, ends of his hair flapping in the slight breeze. 

“Of course he was,” says Dean approvingly. Miracle capers back toward them, nudging encouragingly at Dean’s ankles. Dean hunkers down to pet him, running his hands through his soft silky fur, “Weren’t you, boy, the best bestest boy for Sammy? Looking out for him on hunts, hey?” 

He peers up at Sam, Sam’s watching them, a soft look on his face that makes Dean swallow and straighten. “Yeah,” he says again, “the best boy.” 

“A spirit threw him against a mausoleum,” Sam says quietly as Miracle sets off on another trail, “he was really hurt. After I killed the ghost, I had to rush him to an emergency vet. It was just like it was the other time with Riot, when I met Amelia.” 

“So you banged another hot vet?” Dean says. 

Sam pushes out a breath, “No, no. It was an old guy, he patched him up, and then I had to take a break. Miracle couldn’t hunt, and I didn’t like the idea of leaving him behind in a motel room. I kept thinking about what would happen if I didn’t come back. Would they find him in time? How would he get out? I couldn’t do that to him.” 

They make it to the other side of the wood, a clearing with a bright, fresh stream. It’s got salmon and bass, it's one of Dean’s favourite places to fish. There are beavers further upstream, a huge, complicated damn. Sam sometimes comes down here on his own to photograph them. Dean’s got to hand it to him, Jack really did go big on the details. 

Dean plops down onto a tree stump, rests his elbows on his knees and watches his brother. Sam’s half-turned away from him. He glances back at Dean, and his mouth twists. “I think Gina called me a month or so after that. I didn’t expect to hear from her again, it was one of those things, you know, a one-time-only deal.” Dean nods, ‘cause yeah, he knows, he’s the king of knowing. “I liked her and she was a great hunter, but it wasn’t anything else. Same for her. She’d lost someone too. Her best friend, she loved her a lot. I think she was in love with her, but she never said it. It was a vengeful spirit, that was how she got into the business. That one time with the two of us, it was solace, for both of us.” 

He sighs again, and turns, comes toward Dean, and sits down on a tree branch, pushes out his foot and presses their calves together. “Anyway, she uh, you know, it only takes one time. She didn’t want it. But she was Dominican, or at least her family were. She’d been raised Catholic, and I don’t know if that was the reason or if she just couldn’t go through with it. She told me she was putting it up for adoption, unless I wanted it. She thought it was only fair that I got first dibs.” 

Sam doesn’t say any more about it that first time. Dean fills in the gaps himself, how that baby must have saved Sam, along with Miracle, given him something to live for. He knows that Sam worked as an archivist in a local museum - if there were ever a perfect geek Sammy job - and that he kept in touch with Gina. She met a wiccan called Judy when Dean Jr was three, gave up hunting, and went back to freelance bookkeeping. Go figure. 

The next time Sam talks about Dean Jr it’s night, and they’re in bed. They sleep together all the time now, which is not the same as their bunker days. Even the days when it was just the two of them they usually chose to sleep separately, both of them jealous of their own space. But Sam doesn’t care so much for his own space now. What Sam wants now is Dean’s space. 

“Judy was a great person,” says Sam. “She taught me a lot. While I was out of the business, I was never really _out_. People were always calling, always wanting information, and Judy would help. She was great with protection spells. It’s how I know that he’ll be okay. He’s still got them.” He breaks off for a moment and rolls onto his side to face Dean. “She was psychic, least she never claimed to be, but I know she was. Gina used to tease me, tell me to get out there and date, she reminded me of you sometimes, the way she was about that. But Judy never said anything. I think she knew, about you and me, and why there was never anyone else, not really." 

Dean props himself up on one elbow, puts his hand over Sam’s where it's laying on the pillow, and laces their fingers together. He looks down at their interlocked fingers, and squeezes. He brings Sam’s hand to his mouth, kisses his knuckles, looks down at Sam who's staring up at him like he's still not sure he's real. He presses Sam’s palm to his bare chest, to his warm skin, to the beating heart underneath. He's not sure it's real either, his heart beats, he breathes, he fucks, he eats, he sleeps, but he's not alive. What does that mean? 

He sighs and sinks back down into bed. He's too tired to prod at that one right now. Sam is shuffling closer, pulling Dean in, handsy and needy like he is now, like he's going to be for a good long while. Sam lived thirty-two years without him. That one, Dean doesn't prod. Sam kisses his bare shoulder, and tugs him close, puts his hand back over Dean's chest, and sighs, breath tickling Dean's neck. 

++ 

Sam’s not in bed when he wakes up. Dean finds him outside, sitting on the porch swing, wrapped in an old comforter. It’s bitterly cold, and Sam is not dressed for this weather, he’s still wearing the tank, shorts and socks he slept in. Miracle is lying on his feet, panting ghost breath into the cold air. Sam turns his head as Dean appears on the porch. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Dean says. He sets down the coffee and shivers. “Jesus, dude, fuckin’ freezing out here.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says absently. “Guess Jack decided to make it winter.” 

It looks beautiful outside. There’s frost on the lawn, tinged white and sparkling, the trees are bony and dark, spidery branches gleaming with the icy frost. It hasn’t been this cold since they’ve been here, balmy days up until now. The backyard looks good with it though. Sometimes he considers having people round, letting them see how well he and Sam have set the place up. Then he thinks about having people in their space, about them seeing the one used bedroom upstairs, the other empty, except for Miracle's dog basket and toys. Maybe not. 

“Now that it’s gonna be cold, we should get a hot tub,” Sam says. 

It’s not what Dean was expecting. He’s taken aback enough to snort a laugh. Sam whips his head back to look at him, and Dean raises his eyebrows. 

“Why’s that such a bad idea?” Sam says defensively. 

“It’s not,” he says, considering. Naked, wet Sam. Hot water. Two things he loves. 

“Dean?”

“It’s a fucking great idea,” Dean says. 

Sam grins at him. He holds out one end of the comforter, gesturing. Dean rolls his eyes. The comforter is not big enough for the two of them and it really is fucking cold. He sighs and folds himself down onto the swing, lets Sam throw his arm around him and pull the comforter around them both. 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been over four years since I posted fic here. While I never gave up on the show, it's been a tough few years. Sam/Dean are my OTP and always will be, and they are now officially the most OTP that have ever OTP-d. Thank you episode 15-20, you were everything.  
> 


End file.
